The Loving Murder
by Knuxle
Summary: Sherlock isn't always an emotional person, but this case digs deep. Rated K plus because kindergarteners shouldn't be reading about murder.
1. Chapter 1

"What have I got?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he briskly stepped up the concrete stairs to Mama Bell's Orphanage

"There was a murder here yesterday at about 10:30 at night. Matron Annabelle, and seventeen children from ages five to thirteen were all shot," the officer replied as he jogged to keep up with Sherlock's quick pace.

"How many survivors?"

"None that we know of,"

Sherlock paused, looked Lestrade up and down, and continued through the heavy, baby blue doors of the building.

"So, why are you here?" the officer asked, curiously as they walked down the bright yellow hallway.

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something interesting. What's so special about this?"

"There were no survivors…" Sherlock said, as his icy blue eyes darted this way and that about the facility, taking in every single scuff, chip, and smudge in the atmosphere. Clearly, this was not very well-treated, or cared very much about. "This is a somewhat older establishment, built sometime around 1974, not too old, but old enough," he reported, glancing over his shoulder at John to see if he was noticing anything. The army doctor's face was blank. Just to tease him, Sherlock added, "John, please stop trying to impress Lestrade with your French cologne, he's a straight man,"

John stopped short, and glared at Sherlock as the officer stifled a laugh. "I'm going out to lunch with Jenny right after this, actually,"

"Ah yes, the cock-eyed one," Sherlock mused, and could hear his partner taking sharp breaths through his nose, his temper rising. For now, the detective decided to leave it at that, and turned into a door labeled, 'OFFICE'. Inside the room, a white-haired woman in a long, floral dress lay on the floor. A red stain had soaked through the dress in the woman's abdomen.

"This is Matron Annabelle, I presume?" Sherlock asked, examining the matron from afar.

Lestrade nodded, and replied, "Any ideas yet?"

"Yes," the detective said, "she was shot,"

Lestrade gave him a death stare, and said impatiently, "Anything else, smartarse?"

"Seven," Sherlock proclaimed, and crouched down by Annabelle and began to deduce the situation. Nicely dressed, bread crumbs by her desk, dry hands, gum stuck to the bottom of her foot and...was that baby powder? Her fingernails were untidy as if they had been bitten off, or had simply worn down over time. It was a sudden death-she had a terrified expression still plastered on her face. The killer entered abruptly, and forcefully without any sort of warning. Carefully, Sherlock lifted her mouth open. She had neat, white teeth. Judging from the way her tongue held itself in place, she had a German accent.

"John, get on that computer and check all of the documents, her email, and check the desk for the children's records as well as some of her personal items," Sherlock told his doctor assistant.

"How am I supposed to check her email?!" John asked, exasperated at how boring all of this was so far.

"Judging from her age lines and the way that her undershirt matches her lace socks she has the username and password written down on something like a heart-shaped post-it note,"

To his surprise, attached to the monitor John found precisely what Sherlock had described. "I found it," he reported.

"Yes I know, I saw it on the way in," Sherlock replied, continued to study Annabelle.

John rolled his eyes, and booted up the computer. Meanwhile, Sherlock asked, "Who was here before us?"

"What?"

The detective pointed at a pale pink shag carpet by the desk,"There was a lump in that carpet that was stepped on by someone with much bigger feet than this woman, and none of us have walked over there. The murderer would not have approached from there, and he wouldn't have stuck around to investigate, so who was here before us?"

"Ah..." Lestrade thought hard, trying to recall who had discovered this scene, "I believe it was officer Bernard. He said he was chasing down a drunken cabbie last night when he heard gunshots and came in here to find them dead,"

"Is he working today?"

"Yes,"

"I want to talk to him once we're done here," Sherlock rose to his feet abruptly, peeling off his rubber gloves, "Annabelle was eating a snack at her desk because she has breadcrumbs on her front and in the grooves of the keyboard," he pointed at John, who was busy scrolling through some of the woman's files, "The murderer came in through the door, she stood up, tried to defend herself but was shot. She collapsed on the ground, and then the murderer moved on to the children. Where are they?"

Lestrade pointed out the room, and replied, "Some of the older ones were in the den, the others were upstairs in bed,"

Sherlock nodded, and said to John, "Keep looking, I'm going to see the children,"

The doctor nodded, and continued to click away at internet history, bookmarking page after page, supposing that Sherlock would find these useful.

Meanwhile, Sherlock made his way down the hall, noticing a few bullet holes in the walls. He paused at one, and carefully attempted to pull the bullet out. It had a silver base, and a narrower, copper, blunt, point, with a slight indent at the tip. He held it in front of Lestrade's face, and said, "Do you know what this is?"

The D. I. looked closely at it, and replied, "I think it's a Hollow Point,"

Sherlock nodded slowly, and pocketed the bullet, his thoughts rapidly recalling any place that he had previously seen this bullet. He closed his eyes, and stood still for a moment, but his concentration was suddenly broken by a whimper coming from upstairs. Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he turned on his heel to Lestrade. They were both thinking the same thing.

Hurriedly, they ran down the hall until they came to an opening in the wall that led to a staircase. Sherlock's heart raced, and pounded with excitement. There would be a living, breathing witness, or perhaps even victim, who could tell him all about what happened. This case was going to be easy!

After ascending the staircase, Sherlock shouted, "Where are you?! Tell us where you are! We can help!"

Silence.

The consulting detective made another feeble attempt, but only received the same silent feedback. He groaned, and began, with Lestrade, to search every single room. There were only about seven rooms, each with two rickety, wooden cots, and an equally as rickety wooden floor. A dusty rug that had not been cleaned or beaten in a while sat sadly in the middle of the floor, along with two bedside tables that were horribly splintered, and covered in strange artifacts, and what appeared to be photos. Very few of the bedrooms had a window in it, and if there was one, the window was coated in grime, dust, and whatever else, and the sill seemed to have every kind of mysterious creature inhabited in it that one could imagine. In a few of them, young children lay in their bed, still as a stone. Sherlock would check their pulses, shake his head, and decide to deduce them later when John was finished with his work. Then, the doctor could confirm the damage done.

Finally, Sherlock came to a room with a rocking chair and a crib rather than the two cots. This room appeared to be much more well-treated than the others, with a clean, almost new-looking window, replaced floorboards, and a fresh-smelling atmosphere. Cautiously, Sherlock tip-toed to the crib, and his stone-hard face softened a bit.

He poked his head out the door, and half-whispered, "Lestrade, I've found a survivor!"

The D.I. backed out of the room he was inspecting and replied, "For God's sake, Sherlock, speak up!"

He bit his lip, and said slightly louder, "I have found a survivor,"

Lestrade's face lit up, and he rushed over to Sherlock, joining him in the room. Immediately, the left corner of his lip curled up, and he chuckled when he saw a small, innocent baby lying in the crib, sleeping soundly.

Suddenly, he coughed and returned to reality. "Why do you think this one was left alive?" he grunted.

Sherlock sniffed, and he muttered, "Because she can't blab about what happened," he leaned on the crib, and began to read the baby, "Fetch John for me,"

Lestrade nodded, and rushed down the creaky stairs. Meanwhile Sherlock leaned in as close as he could, and attempted to read. That was what he hated about children: they were virtually unreadable. Their innocence and peculiarity made it seem as though they were covering their face with a sheet. Repeatedly, Sherlock thanked all of the luck he had that he had only experienced a murderer child once. That case was one of the more difficult ones, mostly because of his wide options. Children did not have a fully developed personality, or preference yet, so there was such a huge variety of what could have actually happened.

Sherlock scoffed, and pushed himself away from the sleeping infant. Instead, he focused on inspecting the room. Once again, unreadable. There was absolutely no evidence that this child lived there other than the fact that it currently slept in the crib. It was rather annoying.

"Sherlock?" a voice came from behind. The consulting detective spun on his heel, and ran to his partner.

"John! Tell me what is wrong with this child!" he poked a finger at the sleeping baby, whose eyelids twitched as it entered REM sleep.

"Well..." John scratched the back of his neck, showing clear signs that he had no idea, "I don't deal with babies that often, Sherlock. There are no apparent signs of any head trauma, major wounds, or anything that a murderer could have caused. Besides, if she was hurt she would be screaming her head off right now,"

Sherlock turned his nose up, and said bluntly, "Go to the other children, examine them. I need to go to my mind palace,"

Lestrade and John rolled their eyes in unison, but left without a complaint.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock paced up and down the room until he felt almost sure that he had carved out a significant dent in the floor. This was an easy room to think in–a white noise of the baby's steady breathing, blank atmosphere, and plenty of light. Still, it was confusing to him how this killer could be so...good. There was absolutely no evidence left behind other than the bullets in the walls, and no witnesses to speak about what happened. The neighboring houses were abandoned, no victims were left alive, and there were no fingerprints anywhere. Plenty of shoe marks, but the killer had cleaned his boots thoroughly so the only traces of dirt were from the front yard. Sherlock would be able to find out where he entered the property, but that would not help very much. Still...if this man was as heartless as he seemed at the moment, he would have killed the baby too. So, the killer obviously had some sort of grudge against Matron Annabelle, and only killed the children to get rid of any witnesses.

At last, Sherlock decided not to abuse the floor anymore, and he paused. He yanked out a small magnifying glass from his coat pocket, and inspected the floors. There were significant tracks, and smudges along the wall. Also, the tracks were staggered, as if he had some sort of leg injury. Perhaps one of the elder children had attempted to defend his/herself, and kicked him. The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled up as his theory was confirmed by blood on the floor. Just a tad bit, but enough to help him. Quickly, he took a sample of the drop, and returned to checking for fingerprints. There was a slight dent in the rim of the crib, and Sherlock could picture the murderer gripping onto it for extra support. Also, there were fairly new, tiny teeth marks around the dent, as if the baby had attempted to bite whoever had disturbed her from her sleep. The consulting detective could not help but chuckle a bit as he pictured this child trying to lash out at a much older, stronger man with a gun.

Once again, Sherlock's eyes could not help but drift to the sleeping infant. He cocked his head as he tried to calculate her age–she was probably somewhere around five to six months. Despite the work he had to get done, Sherlock reached down and gently patted her on the back. Then, he straightened up, and headed downstairs to meet with Lestrade and John.

"Anything?" John asked hopefully as he saw Sherlock enter the office.

He nodded, and gently pushed John out of the way to get to the desk files. As he reached down to dig through the drawers, he glanced at the computer screen.

"What are these?" he asked, and straightened up to see the screen better.

"Those are some documents I found, as well as some of her internet history. Just thought you might be interested," John shrugged.

Sherlock quickly flicked through the tabs, and returned to filing through the drawers. "When did officer Bernard arrive?" he asked absentmindedly as he worked.

"He said he got there around 10:45pm. Then he was shot when he went inside and the murderer got away," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock suddenly slammed his hand on the desk, and stood. "You didn't mention that he was shot,"

The D.I. stepped back, and said defensively, "I just found out now, alright?! Yeah, he was shot in the leg. He's in the hospital right now,"

Sherlock clapped his hands in excitement, and exclaimed, "Terrific! He can give us a description and we'll be all done!" Suddenly, his face fell in disappointment, "That was too easy,"

Reassuringly, Lestrade patted him on the back and said, "Ah, don't worry, we'll probably get another case soon enough. Until then you can have a bit of a break, alright?"

John nervously glanced at his flatmate, and answered for him, "Yes, Sherlock would greatly appreciate a break,"

Sherlock reached for his coat, and huffed, "Alright, let's go to the hospital and see what we can find. Come on," he started to make his way out of the office, when Lestrade grabbed his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I think you're forgetting something," he hinted, and glanced at the ceiling.

Sherlock paused, and exclaimed, "Right! I accidentally left my scarf upstairs! Thank you for reminding me!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, frustratedly, "The baby, Sherlock! He was talking about the baby!"

The consulting detective gave him a blank look. "And?"

"We can't just..._leave her_!" John had to take a moment to realize his flatmate had most likely deleted anything that had to do with children, considering he seemed to hate kids.

"And why not?" Sherlock replied, still entirely clueless, "She survived one night alone, so I think she can survive a couple hours,"

That thought was interrupted by an ear-splitting wail coming from the level above. John sighed dramatically, and gave Lestrade a look that said, '_WHY DID YOU ASK HIM TO DO THIS CASE?_'.

Lestrade grunted, and said, "Well, I think we ought to take her to some sort of other orphanage or adoption center, and then we can focus on what we need to do, alright?"

Sherlock gave a cheeky grin, and replied, "Yes, I agree completely. You two do that while I check on Officer Bernard in the hospital. Have a nice day!" he began to exit into the hallway when he added, "Oh yes, and please do fetch my scarf. Meet me back at Baker Street!"

**AN: Sorry, I know it's a bit short, but there will be another one up soon, so be expecting it! As always, follows, favorites, and reviews are always appreciated, and feel free to PM me if you have any questions about the fanfic. See you soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

"He's in room 544," the kind, blonde woman behind the desk said.

Sherlock nodded, expressionlessly, and turned briskly on his heel. He hated hospitals. All of the noises, the sights, the smells-it was far too much information at once for his brain to properly process. Constantly, one unfinished thought after another crammed their way into his noggin, and were deleted half a second later. His black, freshly polished loafers clacked over the sounds of humming and buzzing machinery on the blank, tile floor. The over-sanitariness made him feel sick to his stomach from bad memories. Sherlock fought the urge to remember his past, and began scanning the walls for room 544. As much as he despised the case he was after, he still felt compelled to do as Lestrade said. And he hated it.

Cautiously, Sherlock nudged open the door, hoping that Officer Bernard was awake. Thankfully, he was.

"Hello," he said to Sherlock cheerfully, as if he was never in a hospital with a bullet wound.

Sherlock acknowledged his greeting with a nod, and sat gingerly in a cushioned chair by Bernard's bedside. He was still a bit squeamish about the hospital.

"You must be Sherlock," Bernard said, trying to reduce the level of awkwardness between them.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered as his eyes darted about the room.

Bernard was a typical stocky, muscular policeman, with a very, very pronounced jawline. His hands looked as though they alone could easily strangle a human being, or perhaps a grizzly bear, and he had feet that could be mistaken for snow shoes. Despite his threatening appearance, he had warm, friendly brown eyes with crinkles around the corners from smiling, tousled auburn hair, and flawless skin...besides a dark, swollen purple area around his eye, clearly where he had been hit. It looked fresh, so perhaps the murderer had physically beat him up. Besides the awful black eye, Bernard could have easily been mistaken for some sort of male model.

"So..." Bernard shifted uncomfortably in his hospital bed, "You wanted to ask me about the murder?"

Brought back to reality, Sherlock replied, "Ah...yes, what did the murderer look like?"

The officer scratched his head, and said, "Well...he was a blonde bloke. A bit shorter than average...maybe about 5 foot 6? He had a bit of a larger nose. He certainly wasn't the kind of guy I'd expect to see commitin' murder and all, but there he was. Standin' over some six-year old's dead body with a gun,"

Sherlock suddenly took a sharp breath through his nose, but slowly released it out his mouth and asked, "Yes...what was he wearing?"

Officer Bernard shrugged, "A sweater, grey trousers, some loafers. Nothin' too special,"

Nervously, the consulting detective chewed his lower lip. Pushing the brief, horrible thought away, he said, "What time was this?"

"About 10:30,"

"Did you notice any survivors?"

"Not before the police showed up. I called for backup once I was shot in the leg, and then I blacked out," gingerly, Bernard lifted his pajama pant leg to reveal his foreleg, wrapped up and bloodstained.

Sherlock neither winced, not cringed at the sight, but simply gave an unimpressed shrug. "So," he continued, "You didn't find the baby upstairs,"

Bernard narrowed his eyes, and replied, "No,"

Closing his eyes, Sherlock stood, and began to walk out the door. Suddenly, he stopped, and asked, finally, "Do you think I'd be able to gather information from analyzing the baby?"

Bernard shrugged, "Dunno. You're the expert,"

Sherlock flopped himself down in the overstuffed chair by the TV, and closed his eyes. He wished, deep down inside, that his suspicions were false. For once in his entire life he so longed to be incorrect. However, all he could do now was wait for Lestrade and John to show up. In the meantime, he hummed one of his violin tunes to the scuffling of Mrs. Hudson's feet upstairs. If there was one thing he hated most, it was being bored. Sherlock sighed, and strode over to his bookshelf. He ran a gentle finger over the spines of the books, looking for the one...aha! Chester's Endless Book of Logic Puzzles and Brain Teasers. Although these "brain teasers" were quite quick and easy to figure out, the book was thick, and there was a good-sized portion that Sherlock had not yet gone over. He yawned, quietly, flopped back in the chair, and began to thumb through the pages to find where he left off.

"Which is correct, the yoke of the egg is white, or the yoke of the egg are white?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes to how many times he had heard this blasted 'brainteaser'. In his untidy handwriting, he quickly scrawled in the book:

_Neither, the yoke of the egg is yellow._

"Obviously," he muttered.

Next up was a logic puzzle, which he enjoyed more (although it usually only took a few seconds to solve). _Alice went to the italian restaurant in February for a cost of 10$...David went to the chinese restaurant in April for a cost of 45$_...etc., etc..

In the midst of his problem solving, Sherlock reached in his pocket, and pulled out the blood sample he had taken from the orphanage. He turned it over in his pale hand, and decided to take it to St. Bartholomew's later where he could find who the owner is. Sighing, he shoved it back into his pocket, and returned to his logic puzzles._ Joey owned the black horse who ate pink hay_. Dull.

Frustratedly, Sherlock slammed his pen on the coffee table, and chucked the book across the room. It knocked into the wall, and fell to the floor with a series of thuds. The gentle sound of Mrs. Hudson shuffling about upstairs paused, as she heard the noise. Secretly, Sherlock hoped that she would not come downstairs and interrupt him from his work. Thankfully, the noise of shuffling feet returned as quickly as it had gone.

Sighing, Sherlock massaged his temples with his fingertips, and stared blankly at the spray-painted smiley face on the wall, surrounded by bullet holes. His eyes could not help but drift to his secret stash of cigarettes. He narrowed his eyes, contemplated the thought, but was thankfully hit with the thought that Mrs. Hudson would be upset with him smoking indoors, not to mention the fact that John would tell him, exasperatedly, "But Sherlock, you're doing so well,". The consulting detective scrunched up his face as to mimic his flatmate, and threw his arms at his sides. _WHEN WERE JOHN AND LESTRADE GOING TO BE BACK?!_ Though he did not like to admit it, Sherlock liked being bored when John was around, so he had someone to complain to. It was not quite as satisfying for him to shout at himself about how bored he was.

Giving his fingers something to busy with, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began to repeatedly text John:

**3:42**

**John. Get over here. I'm bored.**

**-SH-**

**3:45**

**JOHN. WHY ARE YOU SO SLOW?**

**-SH-**

**3:50**

**John, the flat is on fire.**

**-SH-**

At last, he got a reply:

**3:50**

**No it isn't. Lestrade and I have to sign some papers at the adoption center, alright? Be patient.**

**-JW-**

**3:51**

**John, I'm serious, the flat is on fire.**

**-SH-**

**3:51**

**I'M NOT IN THE MOOD FOR GAMES, SHERLOCK. JUST GIVE ME A SECOND!**

**-JW-**

**3:52**

**No, John, I'm serious. I got bored.**

**-SH-**

**3:52**

**YOU SET THE BLOODY FLAT ON FIRE?!**

**-JW-**

**3:52**

**:) yes.**

**-SH-**

**3:53**

**I'LL BE OVER THERE ASAP.**

**-JW-**

**3:53**

**How many times must I explain this? ASAP is not an actual word. You are permitted to say 'as soon as possible', 'quickly', 'right away', or 'very soon'. ASAP is not grammatically correct.**

**-SH-**

Sherlock smiled to himself, and shot the smoke alarm with John's gun. True, the flat had been on fire, but it had gone out with a few splashes of water. He made a mental note to not attempt to roast marshmallows on the kitchen table again. His smile was wiped from his face as he heard Mrs. Hudson thundering down the stairs, and into his flat.

"SHERLOCK?!" she called, desperately, and bustled into the kitchen. Her worried expression fell as she saw Sherlock standing proudly over the singed kitchen table, with a gun still in hand.

"What happened?!" the landlady cried.

"Bored," Sherlock replied, as-a-matter-of-factly.

"This is going on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, and made a feeble attempt to clean up the burnt area, but quickly gave up.

As if on cue, the flat door burst open, and John stormed inside.

"WHAT-" he began to shout, but Sherlock held up a hand in front of his face.

"I need your help,"

John shoved his hand away, and snapped, "Yes, you do need help. Help being perhaps some MENTAL HELP! WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU THINKING?! YOU JUST SET THE BLOODY FLAT ON FIRE BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO IMPATIENT TO WAIT UNTIL I CAME HOME!"

To his surprise, Sherlock said nothing in reply. No witty comment, no accusation, no excuse. Just silence. The consulting detective simply stared at the ground, in silence.

After what seemed like ages of thick, heavy silence, Sherlock muttered, in all sincerity, "I'm sorry," and left quietly to his bedroom.

**AN: Please, never hesitate to PM me or Review anything. I love all of you, and it makes my day to see all of the follows and favorites flowing in! I live off of feedback, and I really appreciate it too! Thanks all of you!**


	4. Chapter 4

The wrinkly, snapping turtle stood tall, and proudly in her wedding gown, and she smiled up at John, taking his hands. The priest cleared his throat loudly, and began, "Do you, Miss. Tabitha Rose Jones, take John Hamish Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Tabitha, the turtle, gargled, "Yes, you can bet your bottom dollar I do!"

The priest acknowledged her confidence, and turned to John. "Do you, John Hamish Watson, take Tabitha Rose Jones to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

John beamed, and said, "I most certainly do!"

The priest began to proclaim them husband and wife, when suddenly gunshots were heard from behind. Tabitha shrieked, and collapsed to the ground. All of the various woodland creatures in the pews screamed, and began to flee for the doors. John tuned to see Sherlock, arm extended, holding a smoking gun.

"JOHN! GET OUT OF BED! IT'S NEARLY 2:00 IN THE AFTERNOON!" Sherlock shouted, and shot the priest.

Horrified, John bent down to tend to them, gently shaking his snapping turtle fiancé, trying to awaken her. He was a bit surprised, however, that he was not at all alarmed at Sherlock's sudden entrance.

Once again, his flatmate hollered over the shouts of the wedding guests, "JOHN, IT'S TIME TO GET UP NOW! WE'VE GOT TO GO TO ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S!"

Suddenly, John jerked awake, and clenched his chest. He gently opened his eyes, only to find himself staring into a pair of icy blue eyes. Sure enough, he was nose-to-nose with Sherlock. John fought back the urge to yell at him, and said calmly, "Sherlock,"

"What?" his flatmate whispered.

"Get off of me,"

"Okay," Sherlock jumped off the bed, and regained his composure, straightening out his plum purple shirt, and brushing wrinkles away from his pants. "So, how did you sleep?" he asked, casually as if nothing had just happened.

"Fine," John lied, and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. Sure enough, the clock read 2:04 pm. He had overslept. A lot. He slowly sat up in bed, and instinctively reached for his mobile on the bedside table.

"John, we need to talk," Sherlock said, suddenly in a much more serious tone.

The doctor paused in the midst, of checking his texts, and looked up at his flatmate. Sherlock's cold eyes were even darker thank usual, and his jaw was more clenched up than usual. Mentally, John praised his deduction skills, but replied, apologetically, "Look, last night when I said you needed mental help, I really didn't mean…"

"I don't want to talk about that," Sherlock cut him off, "It's something else…" the consulting detective fumbled with his hands, as if he were searching for the correct words to say. No doubt, it was very rare to see him in a sate like this. He took a deep breath, and said, "John, have you been feeling…well?"

John blinked, and stammered, "Um, yes, yes I'm pretty sure,"

"That's good. Yes…yes um…right," Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. For once in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to make of the situation. He opened his mouth to say more, but closed it and turned to leave the room.

"Sherlock," John called after him, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine…" he answered, and quickly left the room.

John gave a perplexed look after him, but shrugged it off. After all, it was normal for Sherlock to act in such a manner. Although, it _was_ unusual for him to not acknowledge the argument they had last night, or even seem to be remotely upset about it. Despite his confusion, John still had to help Sherlock with the case today, which also meant getting out of bed, as much as he did not want to. After the quarrel with Sherlock, he had gone on to his date with Jenny (which he was unacceptably late to, because of the case. Jenny dumped him, and accused him of forcing her to compete with Sherlock. What else is new?) and then went to the surgery. He had quite an extensive list of patients, so his work lasted until about 3:00am. Then, John came home, watched the football match he had recorded, and went to bed. The entire time, as far as he knew, Sherlock had been shut up in his room, and occasionally while he was watching football, soft beginnings of a violin tune could be heard from his flatmate's room. Sherlock kept playing the same little piece over and over, adding a little more each time; composing. Thinking.

Once John was satisfied with his white shirt, burgundy sweater, and grey trousers, he trotted downstairs. To his surprise, Sherlock sat contently at the kitchen table (which was still badly burnt, despite Mrs. Hudson's efforts to clean it up) eating a small stack of buttermilk pancakes, with a matching plate adjacent to him. He glanced at John as to invite him to sit and eat as well, even though it was 2:00 in the afternoon.

"Did you make these?" John asked, gesturing to the neatly laid-out breakfast.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "Why are you surprised?"

"I just…I've never seen you cook before. I didn't really know that you actually _could_ cook, to be completely honest," John pulled out the chair across from his flatmate, and pulled the plate of pancakes towards him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and said in the tone he used to point out 'obvious' things, "John, I've read at least 312 different chemistry books in my lifetime, and have done more experiments on chemistry than the average chemist. Do you honestly think I can't cook a stack of pancakes?"

John shrugged as he shoved a mouthful of breakfast into his mouth. "I suppose you're right," he said between bites.

A stiff, but not unpleasant silence hung amongst the two as they quietly finished their 'breakfast'. It was just now that John noticed how slow of an eater Sherlock was. Each bite of pancake must have taken him at least a minute to eat. It looked as though if Sherlock ate too quickly, the pancakes would explode in his mouth, so he intentionally chewed unbearably slowly.

John cleared his throat and broke the silence, "I heard you composing last night,"

Sherlock looked up from his pancakes, and replied, "Yes, I was holding a concert for the king and queen of my mind palace. You could have come in as well, you know,"

"No, you had the door locked," the doctor frowned a little.

Briefly, Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if he had no idea what his flatmate was talking about, but then nodded vigorously, "Yes, yes, I remember now. My apologies,"

Now, John was more curious than ever. This behavior was not Sherlock at all. What could possibly be on his mind that caused him to be so…strange? John hoped it was not from the argument they had the previous night. He had not meant the nasty things he had said about Sherlock. He was simply frustrated that the adoption center did not accept the little girl, and he had to leave Lestrade to sort it out on his own. Suddenly, John became worried that Lestrade was upset with him. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and checked for anything from Lestrade. Sure enough, there was a long list of desperate texts from the DI.

** 4:13**

** John, I really need your help. They wouldn't take her. What do we do?**

** -GL-**

** 4:30**

** JOHN. PLEASE. HELP.**

** -GL-**

** 4:37**

** Please, help me! She's crying now and I don't know what to do!**

** -GL-**

** 4:50**

** JOHN! HELP ME!**

** -GL-**

** 5:01**

** I have to go to work and she won't SHUT UP! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HER!**

** -GL-**

** 5:14**

** JOHN. I HAVE TO GO TO THE STATION FOR WORK. I'M REALLY LATE. CAN YOU TAKE HER OFF MY HANDS PLEASE?**

** -GL-**

** 5:30**

** I'M HALF AN HOUR LATE FOR WORK AND SHE WON'T STOP CRYING! PLEASE, I'LL PAY YOU ANYTHING, JUST PLEASE COME!**

** -GL-**

** 5:45**

** JOHN THIS ISN'T FUNNY! I'M GOING TO GET FIRED FOR THIS!**

** -GL-**

** 6:30**

** It's okay; Molly let her stay at her place tonight. Bless her soul, but she has to go to work at 2:45 tomorrow, and she needs you to take the baby off her hands then, all right?**

** -GL-**

Desperately, John looked at the clock: 2:30. He ran for his coat that hung on one of the wooden chairs, and fought himself into it. Curiously, Sherlock looked up from the food that he was eating painfully slowly.

"Why are you in such a rush?" he asked, calmly.

"The adoption center wouldn't take the baby, so we have to pick it up from Molly's house," John replied, somewhat agitated.

Sherlock swore loudly and threw his plate of pancakes across the room. It hit the wall with a _CRACK_, and fell to the floor, splattering syrup and pancake guts all over the wall and floor. Then, Sherlock proceeded to fling his chair out of the way (breaking one of the legs while he was at it) and make a mad dash for his coat and scarf.

**AN: Two chapters in one day?! Mind=BLOWN. Anyway, I had a lot of time in the car today for writing, because we were driving to Wisconsin for spring break. Definitely expect a chapter very soon, because I've almost finished ANOTHER chapter (I know, I'm probably pushing myself, but I love it)**

** Tiger of the Storm: I won't give any spoilers, but yes, this IS going to be good. :)**

**Thanks for all of the feedback! Where would I be without all of mu lovely followers? As always, follow, favorite, and review! See ya soon!**


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson came scuffling into the room, and scolded, "Sherlock! Watch your language! There's a young one just upstairs, you know!"

Sherlock completely ignored the scolding, and nearly choked himself putting his scarf on.

"Why are you the one in a hurry now?" John asked as he watched, amused, as his flatmate practically jump into his shoes, only to find that he had his right shoe on his left foot, and vice versa.

"THE CHILD, JOHN. THE CHILD!" he exclaimed in reply, as he put the proper shoe on the proper foot.

"I…don't think I understand,"

"That's because you're so oblivious to things in your silly little mind," Sherlock rambled in an even-toned voice, "If she bit the murderer like I think she did, she still has his DNA somewhere on her. Plus, I might be able to pick up any past-trauma signs, which could get us somewhere. Also, see if there was any eardrum damage due to perhaps a bullet being fired at her, or near her. And then…" his thought was suddenly cut off by the sound of his mobile vibrating on the coffee table. He picked it up, and said, "Yes, what do you want?"

It was Lestrade. "Are you two going to help Molly out or what? She's been waiting for you to show up!"

"Yes, we're on our way right now," Sherlock replied, and signaled to John, 'We need to get a cab right now or else Lestrade is going to kill us'. Apparently John got the message, and he began to head out the door.

"Also, are you going to Bartholomew's?"

"Yes, why?"

"You need to visit Bernard's room. He got a visit from a sketch artist, and the result might help you,"

"I'll be sure to stop by," Sherlock followed John out the door, and shut it behind him. Immediately, they were hit with a chilly downpour. The water seemed to seep through their skin and chill their bones.

"Bye," Lestrade said, still sounding a bit annoyed at Sherlock, and hung up.

Sherlock shoved his mobile back into his pocket, and nearly threw himself into the road trying to hail a cab. One of the pitch-black cars pulled up to the curb, and he half-shouted Molly's address to the cabbie. During the entire cab ride, Sherlock's left leg bounced out of control, and he would not stop squirming in his seat. He looked like a little kid on a road trip to an amusement park.

At last, the cab pulled up to Molly's flat, and Sherlock burst out of the car, leaving it to John to pay the cabbie. He sighed, gave him the money, and followed his flatmate's lead out of the car. Proudly, Sherlock marched up to the flat's door, and rapped on the wood. Almost immediately, the door swung open, and Molly appeared in the doorway. Her hair was in the usual side-ponytail, but it was much messier than usual. The rims of her eyes were red, and crusted in her eyelashes. She was in her work clothes (minus the white lab coat) but they were wrinkly as though she had slept in them—that is, if she had slept at all. Although she looked absolutely miserable, she did not fail to give a weak smile.

Sherlock took a step back in surprise, and said, "Goodness Molly, I don't believe you should go to work smelling like vomit,"

John gave him a good, hard elbow in the ribcage, and added, "Which is why we're here to get the child. I assume she kept you up last night…" he squirmed guiltily as he saw Molly's lips purse.

"Well…a bit, yes, but I'm used to it by now. Really, it wasn't too much of a trouble. We actually had some fun, Wendy and I," Molly replied, and stepped out of the way to let the two drenched flatmates into the house.

"Wendy?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"Oh, that's what I've been calling her. It didn't seem very proper to just call her 'baby'," she explained, and rushed to the kitchen to grab some coffee for them.

Sherlock nodded slowly, and began to help himself to Molly's possessions, flipping through magazines, photo albums, and books. John shot him a glare, but the consulting detective ignored him. Apparently, Sherlock had deleted any manners he had left. Trying to help, John directed his flatmate to the sofa, and sat him down.

Molly returned into the room, holding two cups of coffee. She gingerly set them on the table, and smiled at the two boys. "Feel free to make yourselves comfortable. I'll go get Wendy. She might still be asleep though,"

Sherlock looked down his nose at the coffees, and sighed. "I always take black, two sugars, but she never remembers…"

Once again, John elbowed him in the ribcage, "_You_ are being ungrateful. Molly has done us a huge favor. The least you could do is thank her,"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes, and half-heartedly took a sip of his coffee as Molly bustled back into the room, cradling the baby in her arms.

"What are you two going to do with her?" she asked, smiling at the little bundle in her arms.

"Study her," Sherlock replied, monotone, "We need to check for any leftover DNA traces, injuries, post-trauma attributes, anything that could give us clues,"

Molly cocked her head to the side in confusion, "Clues for what?"

"A murder at an orphanage. She was the only survivor,"

The pathologist's face lit up, "Oh yeah, I read about that in your blog, John! That's really strange, isn't it?"

John nodded, and sipped his coffee, trying to hide any signs that it tasted revolting; he did not like sugar. They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments, until Wendy's eyes fluttered open. John grinned, and reached out to take her from Molly.

"We'll take her back to Baker Street, and figure out what to do…" he began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, we'll take her to Bart's," he stood swiftly, setting his nearly untouched coffee back on the table, and headed for the door, "It'll be easier to study her there,"

Molly squirmed, but replied, "Okay, but she might get into some trouble. She's really into…grabbing things," Almost on cue, Wendy reached for John, and poked him in the eye.

"Don't worry, we'll be very careful," he reassured, rubbing his eye.

The pathologist gave John the baby, and went to the other room to finish getting ready. Unsure what to do, the doctor followed Sherlock out the door, calling a quick goodbye back to Molly. The rain had not seemed to lighten up at all; in fact it seemed to be coming down even heavier. Sherlock hailed a cab, told the driver the address, and the cab took off to St. Bartholomew's.

Wendy did not make a single fuss as they entered the hospital, which was a huge relief to John. His back ached from carrying her, and he looked forward to be able to leave her to Sherlock, despite the fact that his flatmate could never be trusted with children for more than fifteen minutes. Molly let them into the laboratory (she had driven herself, and arrived earlier) and quickly returned to her own work.

Sherlock whipped off his coat, and threw it randomly to the ground. Then, he turned on his heel, and began to stride back out of the room, leaving John standing, awkwardly, with Wendy.

"Where are you going?" he asked, setting the child on one of the chairs.

"Bernard's room," Sherlock answered, briskly, "He has some more information that I need for the case,"

John nodded, and turned back to Wendy, making ridiculous faces in an attempt to make her cheerful. It worked, but resulted in another poke to the eye.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's thoughts raced so quickly that he felt as though his poor noggin was going to burst. He still had this feeling in his gut; the hoping and longing for his theory to be incorrect. As much as the consulting detective hated being wrong, he prayed that just this once, his thoughts would be foolish, and silly. Just this once…

He turned the corner, and exited the morgue, transitioning into the hospital. Luckily, he had not deleted the rout he took to Bernard's room; he was in too much of a hurry to stop and ask for directions again. Sherlock stepped into an empty elevator, and pushed the button for the fifth floor. In moments, the silver doors opened back up, and released the anxious man. 544…544…here! The door label read 'Johnson, Bernard'. Sherlock stepped inside to find the same, beat-up, exhausted officer in the bed.

Bernard smiled the same, perfect smile at Sherlock, and said, "Hi again! Did you get Lestrade's call?"

Sherlock nodded, and asked, eagerly, "Where's the result?"

The officer leaned over to the bedside table, and grabbed an envelope, placing it in Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you," the consulting detective said, and turned to leave, but Bernard stopped him.

"Oi! Let me know when you find out who it is, okay? I wanna give 'em a piece of my mind,"

Sherlock gave a forced smile, and replied, "Yes, I will inform you as soon as possible," and left. He noted the fact that he did not say 'ASAP' like John did, and smiled triumphantly to himself. Once he was a good distance away from Bernard's room, he tore open the envelope, and hurriedly unfolded the contents inside. His heart dropped to his stomach, and he felt his knees threaten to give way. No doubt, he recognized this face. He recognized every single attribute that the artist had outlined with extreme care. He saw this face every day. It was John's face.

**AN: HELLO MY PRECIOUS. No spoilers, no spoilers, my lips are sealed. You guys are really in for a treat; I'll be updating pretty frequently during the next week, but once school starts back up, I won't have as much time on my hands. Just warning you.  
Shoutout time!  
Tiger of the Storm: I'm glad I made you laugh, but I apologize to your poor little cat. =^.^= I'm so happy that you like the story, and your review almost made me cry tears of joy :'). Thank you so much!**

**Anyway, don't hesitate to review, favorite, follow, all of that good stuff! Please share this with your Sherlocked friends, and I will love all of you even more! See ya soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's thoughts swam, and he almost felt as though he would get sick. His face paled, and his temples pounded. He almost wanted to lie down on the floor, and hope for his awful nightmare to be over soon.

None of it made sense! John would never do something like that! Sherlock looked down at his hands and they were visibly trembling. He was a bit thankful that he was in a hospital, just in case he got sick. Suddenly, his fears were interrupted by a text from John:

** 3:01**

** Sherlock, what's going on? Where are you?**

** -JW-**

Hands still shaking, Sherlock lied:

** 3:01**

** I got caught up in a conversation with Bernard. I'll be over there soon.**

** -SH-**

** 3:02**

** Well hurry up. Wendy is getting impatient.**

** -JW-**

Sherlock did not even bother to reply anymore. He was still nearly paralyzed by dread. As much as he hated to admit it, it seemed a tad bit likely that this would happen eventually, and he even felt somewhat responsible. If he had never been so arrogant when he was bored, John would not have had to go and do something like this. His flatmate had always hated how he complained about boredom, so perhaps it made a bit of sense that John would go out and create a case for him. It would explain the staggered footprints (left over from John's leg injury) and he had Hollow Point bullets. But it seemed unlikely that he would be able to cover it up so well. Then again, it was never surprising for him to be extraordinarily ignorant. Still…WHY?! Deciding to deduce John in the morgue, Sherlock composed himself, and headed to the elevator.

As soon as Sherlock stepped in the room, the first thing he saw was John giving Wendy a piggyback ride. Molly tried to focus on work, and be serious, but she could not help but grin at the sight. Sherlock, on the other hand, was still very shaken by the sketch artist's results. When John saw him, he froze, and carefully placed Wendy on the table, acting as if it never happened.

He coughed, and said, "Well, what did you find out?"

"Um…nothing I didn't already know," Sherlock lied, trying to hide his face from John as he began to unpack his things from the cupboards.

"That's a shame," John casually sat in on one of the stools and tried to figure out what on Earth Molly was doing.

Wendy cooed, and crawled over to Sherlock's microscope. Her tiny fingers outlined the figure, and she gargled, and pushed it off the table. It fell to the ground with a CRACK and the sound of shattering glass, which made everyone jump in surprise. Sherlock whipped around, and clenched his fists, making a great effort not to get angry. He let out a heavy breath, and grabbed another microscope from the cupboard. John rose again from his chair and began to scoop up what remained of the fallen microscope, and tossed it in the rubbish bin.

"You keep getting into trouble, Wendy," he told the baby, and gave a tiny tickle to her stomach. Wendy giggled in reply and reached out to poke him in the eye again, but John quickly ducked out of the way.

Sherlock ignored this, and set up the new device on the table. Wendy scooted towards it in interest, but the consulting detective robotically stuck out an arm to block her way. She paused, and tried using her stubby little arms to push this new obstacle out of the way, but to no avail. Then, triumphantly, she bent down and sank her newly developed teeth into Sherlock's arm, releasing a surprised yelp from him.

"STOP IT," he said, firmly, and clearly annoyed out of his mind. To this, Wendy only giggled, and clapped her tiny hands together. John could not help but chuckle a bit. He had never really seen Sherlock interact with children, and he had not expected it to go very well at all.

The room fell back into silence, and Sherlock reached over to the child to pull her into view. No doubt, she would be difficult to study. He continued to look her over for a while, until his thoughts were interrupted when Wendy reached out and grabbed his nose. He swatted her hand away, and glowered.

"Did you dress her?" he asked to no one.

Molly looked up from her work, suddenly snapped out of her concentration. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you dressed her," Sherlock repeated.

"No, she was wearing that in the orphanage. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock left her question unanswered, and peeled Wendy's solid, pink shirt off. He carefully placed the fabric under the microscope, and began to inspect it for DNA samples; hair, dandruff, fingernails, dead skin cells, saliva, etc. In the meantime, Wendy sat happily on the table, chewing on a pale pink sponge by the sink. John sat on the stool, eyeing the child, worrying slightly that she would keep annoying the consulting detective to the point where he would lose his patience.

Once Sherlock was done scoping it out, Wendy's shirt had produced 28 dead skin cells, two hairs, and some of her own drool, all of which either belonged to the baby, himself, Molly, or John. He checked her teeth, but only found his own DNA (from when Wendy had bitten his arm). However, when he tried to look up Wendy's files, nothing came up. It was not a system malfunction, it was simply that there was absolutely no evidence that she even existed. He took a fingerprint scan, a blood sample test (which Wendy did not enjoy at all), St. Bartholomew's birth records, anything that could provide information, but still found nothing.

Suddenly, he remembered the blood sample he took from the orphanage. Eagerly, he ran it through the system and...a file flashed up! It belonged to 'Benedict Freeman'. The face that went with this file seemed familiar, but Sherlock could not quite place where he had seen it...out of curiosity, he compared the sketch-artist's interpretation, and found that they did not resemble each other at all. Quickly, he folded the paper and put it back in his pocket before John saw, and noticed the date of birth; March 26, 1999. The sample belonged to a thirteen-year-old.

"I know who that is," John said, "He was one of the boys we found in the den at the orphanage. Why are you looking at his files?"

Then, Sherlock realized it. This murderer was smart. The flood on the floor belonged to one of the orphans, not the killer. Sherlock groaned the massaged his temples with his fingertips. Wendy, still happily sitting on the table, squealed and threw her sponge at the consulting detective. Abruptly he rose, and snapped, "I'm going outside. Don't let the child touch my things,"

**AN: Hello my wonderful little angels! I evilly laugh as I write this, MUHAHAHHA. Sorry this is up a bit later than I promised. I have had this finished for a day or so, but I only just now got the chance to upload it. The updates are going to be slowing down as writer's block sets in, but I will NOT give up! I promise! Shout-out time?**

** Tiger of the Storm: I am now smiling evilly, biting back spoilers. You'll just have to wait and see, now won't you? ;) Also, I PMed you. FYI.**

**Alright guys, as always, favorite, follow, and leave your lovely little reviews! Join the review revolution! See you later!  
P.S. Wendy belongs to me, so don't try to steal her Moffat, Gatiss, BBC.  
P.P.S. Sorry some of the formatting is a bit wonky. I was transitioning from Google Documents to Pages to Microsoft Word to Text Edit to this, and it kinda screwed some things up.**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock burst out the double-doors, and flopped onto a cold, hard bench outside of Bart's. Out of old habit, he reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, but found nothing. He silently cursed himself, and slumped deeper in the bench. The rain had not lightened up at all, so within a few seconds, Sherlock was completely drenched, but he did not care. Under normal circumstances, the sweet sound of each tiny drop of rain hitting the sidewalk was relaxing, but now it was a nuisance, and distracted the consulting detective from his thinking. In frustration, Sherlock kicked up a splash of water, very much like a small child, and sulked on the cold, metal bench.

"Why so glum, brother?"

Sherlock audibly groaned, and looked up to see Mycroft with his _stupid umbrella_ towering over him. Avoiding eye-contact, he muttered, "Tricky case,"

Without asking for an invitation, the elder brother sat down beside him, and folded his umbrella away. Once again, an agitated groan escaped Sherlock's lips as he scooted over to the side to make room for his sibling.

"Tell me about it," Mycroft said, crossing his legs where he sat.

"I don't know who the murderer is, or how he was so clever," Sherlock lied, trying to avoid the gaze of his brother.

"If your job makes you unhappy, why do you continue it?"

"It doesn't make me unhappy," the detective snapped, "I'm just frustrated right now, okay?"

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, and reluctantly dropped the argument. He rose from the bench, and began to stride back towards the hospital entrance.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Sherlock asked, after him.

Mycroft turned back towards his brother, and replied, "Anthea got in a car accident a few days ago while picking up one of my clients,"

"So you're visiting her?"

"Heavens no!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I'm here to deliver her paycheck! Honestly, what has gotten into you, Sherly?"

Sherlock clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms at the mention of his childhood nickname. "Go ahead then," he growled, ignoring the sneer from his elder brother. Mycroft smugly continued on his way into St. Bartholomew's, leaving his brother on the bench, still trying to wrap his mind around what was going on.

After an hour of sitting there, in the rain, thinking, Sherlock went back inside Bartholomew's. Trying to keep his normal composure, he stepped inside the morgue, and into the lab. The first thing he saw was John hurriedly trying to clean up shattered bits of microscope, and Wendy clapping her hands in triumph. He sighed, and shuffled over to the cupboard to grab another one.

"Um...sorry about that," John said, nervously, "I just couldn't keep her contained,"

Sherlock did not reply, but only set the new microscope on the table, and pulled out his mobile. He stared at it for a while, pretending to read something, when really he was just trying to avert his eyes from his flatmate's.

"Listen...Sherlock?" Molly spoke up, quietly, as if she was nervous about what she would say, "I can't take care of Wendy another night. I need to get some sleep because I'm working a night shift tomorrow, and I can't do that with her. So...I was wondering if you maybe...um..." she stared at the ground, and twirled the toe of her shoe on the tile floor.

Sherlock stiffened up, fearing what she was about to say, even though he knew it at once.

"Will you please take her back to your flat? I promise, it will only be for tonight, then I'll take her again but..."

The consulting detective audibly groaned, and contemplated what he was about to do in his mind, coming to a conclusion that it would not be so bad. Plus, he could make any other necessary observations.

"Yes," he said, bluntly, "Only tonight though,"

Molly's worried face broke into a thankful grin, and she sighed, "Thanks so much Sherlock. Really, you're a lifesaver,"

John snickered at this remark–he did not exactly consider his flatmate to be anything close to a lifesaver, and perhaps even the opposite at times.

Sherlock acknowledged the comment with a half-hearted grunt, and propped himself up on the table with his elbows. Curiously, he peered into Wendy's wide eyes, still attempting to deduce her, but to no avail. For the umpteenth time that day, the child reached out, and grabbed Sherlock's nose. He admitted defeat, and made no move to prevent her from squeezing his nostrils open and shut. Wendy squealed with joy, and proceeded to beat the poor detective on the head with her tiny fists. Finally having enough, he calmly took both of her wrists in his hands, and set them in her lap. Despite his actions, Wendy reached up again, this time taking his dark curls in her hand and tugging on them. This time, Sherlock smacked her hand away, and glowered at her, rubbing his sore scalp with his hand. At the sight, Molly giggled, but remained at her work, leaving the man to deal with the situation on his own.

"Come on," Sherlock muttered, and scooped wendy up in his long arms. Carefully, he scooted his way between the lab tables, and made his way out the door.

"Where are you going?" John called behind him.

"Away from here," his flatmate replied, robotically.

**AN: Yeah, it's short, I know, but I really wanted to get ****_something_**** up for you guys (and I just HAD to add a bit of Mycroft in there). Spring break will be over soon, and I want to get as much of the fanfiction uploaded as possible before I have to go back to school (where I'll have NO time to work on it). If you want to see more of my work, please check out my new Sherlock fanfiction, Lovely Suzette, and I will love you TWICE as much!  
Shoutout time!**

** Tiger of the Storm: Well, suspense was the intention! I hope I don't disappoint you! Thank you very much for your nice comments and such! :)**

**I really hope that all of you are enjoying the fanfiction so far! It's been a joy to think up, and plot evil things in my mind! Please leave a review, and join the review revolution! As always, follow, favorite, feel free to PM me, and review to make me happy! :) Have a great (but cold, if you're in the midwest States) 'Spring Break', and I'll see ya soon!**


	8. Chapter 8

For a moment, Sherlock considered phoning John to tell him he had gone back to the flat, but decided against it. After all, the last thing he wanted right now was to talk with his flatmate. In the meantime, he gently set Wendy on the couch. She squealed at this new environment, and lay down on her tummy. Then, the baby proceeded to drool heavily, on the dark cushions of the sofa. Sherlock sighed, and sulked off to his room to fetch his laptop.

Shortly, he returned to find Wendy slobbering all over his union jack pillow. Frustratedly, he snatched it away from her, and she whimpered slightly at his sternness.

"If you want to stay here, you must respect my possessions, and I will do the same for you. Is that understood?"

Wendy made no sound in reply, but instead reached out and flexed her hands, as if pleading to be taken up again by the detective. He rolled his eyes, and scooped up the small child, holding her awkwardly against his chest. She calmed down her fidgeting, and rested her head against Sherlock. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and her eyelids slowly slid down. Soon, Wendy was asleep in the detective's arms, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. He bit his lip, and just prayed that John would not get home any time soon. There was no place that he could put the child until it awoke without there being some sort of hassle. So, for now, he glumly sat on the couch, and grabbed a book he had read at least one hundred fifty times. It was dull, but there was nothing else to do at the moment. As Sherlock read, Wendy gently inhaled and exhaled in his arms as she slept. Normal human beings would call it adorable. Sherlock called it fascinating. Feeling Wendy's chest slowly rise and fall against his...for once in his life, the detective felt _relaxed_. He did not even care about how dull his book was, or how frustrating his case was. All he cared about right now was the baby in his arms. Nothing else in the world could possibly matter more at this moment.

Suddenly, the flat door burst open and the entire earth seemed to crumble around Sherlock as the silence was shattered. "Where have you been?!" John yelled, outraged, at his flatmate.

"Here," he replied, in a softer voice, trying not to wake the child in his arms.

"And you didn't tell me?!" the doctor stepped into the den, and plopped himself on the couch beside Sherlock. He felt his muscles clench up more tightly around the child in his arms, and curled his toes forwards.

"I forgot," Sherlock lied, and closed his eyes gently.

"Sure, right," John said, and pulled out his laptop. He began to slowly type away at his blog, discussing the latest case, "Any new information about the murder?"

The consulting detective gripped Wendy even tighter, biting back what he wanted to say. "No," he replied, forcefully.

His flatmate looked curiously up from his blog, "Really? You spent all of that time with Bernard, then you did about 20 experiments on Wendy, and sulked for an hour, but you don't know _anything_?!"

Sherlock swallowed hard, and said, "No, I told you I..." he reached for his pocket, but stopped himself halfway, "I didn't find out anything more,"

John craned his neck to see his flatmate more properly, "What's in your pocket?"

"Nothing," the detective snapped, and awoke Wendy. Her small eyes blinked in the sudden light, and she reached up and grabbed Sherlock's nose, squealing with joy.

John rolled his eyes, and kept typing away at his blog. After a while of sitting in silence with nothing but the obnoxious _tap tap tap _of the keyboard, Sherlock placed the baby on the couch, and strode into the kitchen to get some tea (but mainly to get away from John). Wendy, out of curiosity, scooted her way towards the blogger, and stared at his screen.

"You wanna help me blog, do you?" he asked in a high-pitched baby voice that made him sound ridiculous.

In response to that, the baby began to slam her tiny little hands down repeatedly on the keyboard. John grabbed her wrists gently, and moved them away from his laptop, fearing it would have the same fate as the two microscopes in the lab. Wendy made an opposing squeal, and began to drool as much as possible in defense. John wrinkled his nose, and scooted away from the now-wet couch cushion, but the baby only followed him, a Niagara Falls of slobber running down her chin.

Somewhat startling the two flatmates, Mrs. Hudson scuffled into the flat, out of breath, and slightly pleased looking. Immediately, Sherlock clenched up, and his full teacup crashed to the ground, causing John to jump in surprise. The detective's eyes widened, and he felt his stomach tighten. He would recognize the powerful smell of vanilla and the _squeak squeak _of damp converse high-tops anywhere.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, trying to ignore the plastered look of shock upon his flatmate's face.

"There's someone by name of 'Ms. Holmes' who wants to see you, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said, trying to fight back a giggle.

"Let her in," he muttered, barely audible.

The landlady grinned, and motioned for someone to come into the flat. Soon, a tall, young woman stepped out, and Mrs. Hudson scuffled away, giddily.

"Hello Sherlock," the young woman said smugly, with a noticeable American accent.

John's eyes must have grown wider than two saucers. If she was who he thought she was...Ms. Holmes?

Sherlock sighed, and backed out of the kitchen, facing the woman's icy blue eyes. "Hello," he muttered, still with a look of abnormal disbelief plastered on his face.

The woman put her hands on her hips in annoyance, and asked, "Really? That's it? No 'Hi there, I haven't seen you in fourteen years, I really missed you!' or 'Wow, this is a surprise! I didn't expect to see you here!' or 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY FLAT HOW THE HECK DID YOU FIND ME?!'? Boy Sherly, you really _have _changed!"

The detective visibly cringed at the nickname, and replied, solemnly, "I am surprised. Surprised that you've had enough _nerve _to even show up,"

The woman's annoyed scowl deepened, and she remarked, sarcastically, "Gee, thanks for the warm welcome home,"

"What are you doing here anyway," Sherlock snapped, "I thought you swore that you never wanted to see me again,"

She sighed, and lowered her hands from her hips. "For one, I didn't say that I didn't want to see you again. I said that I was never coming back. There's a difference. And secondly, Mycroft wanted me to take part in his wedding. Suzette had no opinions about the bridesmaids, so I'm going to be one,"

The detective huffed at the sudden remembrance of his brother's upcoming wedding, but decided to push the thought away at the moment. "Why would he want _you_ anywhere near his wedding?"

"Why would he want _YOU_ anywhere near his best man's spot?!" she replied, defensively.

Sherlock decided to drop the matter, and glumly slumped down in the burgundy chair. The woman glanced around the flat, awkwardly for a moment, before finally pointing at John. "You choose your lovers well, Sherlock,"

John coughed, and said, hurriedly, "Oh no we're not like...that. We're just flatmates,"

She narrowed her eyes, doubtingly, and joined the detective, sitting on the thick, rounded armrest of the chair. Visibly, he made an annoyed scowl at the fact that she had settled herself there, but made no move to prevent her.

"I'm sorry for asking," the doctor piped up, "but I'm not really sure who..."

The woman's face suddenly lit up, and she exclaimed, "Oh yes! I forgot! I'm Enola!"

John cocked an eyebrow, and added, "And...your relationship to Sherlock?"

Enola's face scrunched up in thought for a moment, before suddenly returning to its chipper state, and she laughed, "I'm his _sister_! Honestly, _this man _ever getting a WIFE?!" she poked at Sherlock's cheek to emphasize her statement. Her brother growled in reply, and pouted deeper in his chair.

"Sherlock, you never told me you had a sister!" John exclaimed.

"Why would you want to know anything about Enola?" He grumbled.

Deciding to change the subject, Enola remarked, "So, you're a detective now,"

"Yes,"

"That's a shame. I was hoping that you'd be a pirate!"

Sherlock's cheeks visibly flushed red, and he retorted "I was an ignorant child, Enola!"

"I wanted you to be a pirate though!"

"Why?"

"I could brag to my friends that my brother is Sherlock Holmes, world's smartest pirate!"

As the two siblings went into a heated argument about Sherlock's childhood pirate obsession, John began to notice the similarities between the two. They both shared the same, piercing blue eyes that could see into your soul, same nose, same EVERYTHING. It was strange how Enola could mirror her elder brother so much, whereas he and Mycroft looked nothing alike. The only major differences between the siblings were the facts that

1. Enola was female

2. Enola had intense, ginger hair that fell nearly to her waist, and was straight and light.

Both Holmes seemed to have some sort of autism-perhaps it ran in the family-hers being more on that hyperactive side. Her clothing were vibrant shades against the dark atmosphere of 221B, and she looked like a typical American tourist. She wore a red and white striped tee under a bright turquoise zip-up hoodie, well-fitting blue jeans, and a pair of cream Converse high-tops that looked almost ancient. Not in a million years would John have guessed that this bright, colorful woman was a sibling of the bland, emotionless detective and the serious, devoted businessman.

Suddenly, Sherlock was cut off in the midst of monologuing by Enola's sudden cry: "Sherlock, your daughter is so adorable!"

The detective's mouth dropped open. For a moment, his sister's exclamation caught him off guard, as if he was just now discovering that he had a daughter. He took a few moments to recollect his thoughts, and said, "She is not my daughter, I'm just caring for her temporarily for a friend,"

Playfully, Enola poked his nose, and squealed, "_You _don't have friends! Is she a girlfriend? Is that even possible? Why does your girlfriend have a child? Is she ACTUALLY your daughter and you're just not telling me something? HEY JOHN! YOUR FLATMATE HAS A DAUGHTER! That's odd, because the way that you position your arms by your legs when you sit, I assumed you were a v-"

Sherlock quickly crossed his legs, and interjected, "She is Molly, she helps me out in the Morgue, I'm temporarily taking care if Wendy, I don't have a _girlfriend_, I don't have a daughter, and how dare you accuse me of being...that!" His cheeks burned even more than they already had. He had forgotten how agitating it was to have Enola around.

The younger sister leaned in John's direction, and half-whispered, "He's only upset because it's true,"

The doctor stifled a laugh, but composed himself quickly when he received a glare from Sherlock. Instead, he rose from the couch, and decided to go clean up the mess his flatmate had made when he dropped the teacup, figuring that he and Enola would want to 'catch up', or conclude their argument.

"So, who _is_ Molly?" Enola asked, in a somewhat challenging tone.

Sherlock replied, agitated, "I told you, she helps me out in the morgue,"

"Why are you at the morgue? You're not a dead person!"

"I study the murder victims,"

"Why?"

"So I can deduce what happened to them,"

"How?"

"By looking at their injuries,"

"Can I help?"

Sherlock's straight-ahead gaze snapped to his sister sitting on the armrest. He narrowed his eyes, and said, firmly, "No. There is no way I would ever let you near dead bodies,"

Enola giggled, "I don't want to help with dead people! I want to help with Wendy!"

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows,"What makes you think that I need help with Wendy?"

The younger sister rolled her eyes, and strode to the baby, "Is it not plain to see? She obviously hasn't had a change of clothes in three days, or a diaper change in the past eight hours, possibly even more, she's moving much too slowly for a seven-month-old baby, so she obviously hasn't been put down for a proper nap and she looks unbelievably bored, so you clearly haven't made any sort of attempt to entertain her, nor have you even acknowledged her at all, she's just been through a traumatic experience, that's why she doesn't cry, because she's afraid to cry, clearly she longs for attention, but around here she never gets any of it, she's wondering where her proper mother is, because surely she doesn't recall her mom having a big nose and hideous complexion, so she's slightly afraid of you, and grabs your nose when you come too close to her because she's trying to defend herself so, in conclusion, _you_ aren't anything close to a proper parent to her, therefore, you need help,"

Sherlock shot dagger-eyes at his sister, and growled, "_How would you know that_?"

"Because _I _decided to take the babysitting offer!" Enola replied, smugly.

"You mean before you ran away like a coward?" the detective retorted.

The younger sister opened her mouth to say something back, but closed it, and stared at the floor. Without another word, she scooped Wendy up in her arms, and briskly exited the flat.

**AN: IN NO WAY IS THIS BASED OFF OF THE ENOLA MYSTERIES (although that book series is great). Just wanted to clarify that, in this fanfiction, Enola is NOT based off of the books by Nancy Springer.**

**Now that's out of the way, I would love to thank ALL OF YOU for being so amazing with your follows, and favorites, and reviews. Also, if you don't know what 'Mycroft's Wedding' is, you can find out in my ****_other _****fanfiction, 'Lovely Suzette' (but both can be comfortably read on their own). It mostly revolves around Mycroft, but the events are happening at the same time as this. So...shoutout time?**

** Dr. B: I CAN'T WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER EITHER!**

**Anyway...sorry this is a bit late, by the way. I promise, another one won't take as long. **

**See ya soon!**


	9. Chapter 9

John had begun to busy himself with his blog, so Sherlock carefully slinked out the door of Baker Street, secretly hoping that his ignorant sister had not taken the child anywhere. To his surprise, the downpour of rain had ceased, and Enola sat on the sidewalk with Wendy, a mountain of luggage at her side, and a stick of chalk in her hand. Once she saw her brother come through the door, she quickly attempted to hide what she had drawn on the doorstep, but Sherlock grabbed her arm, and moved it out of the way. His glare deepened. Enola had drawn a man with a greatly exaggerated quaf of curly, dark hair, dark blue overcoat, and matching scarf; Sherlock. It would have been an extraordinarily accurate drawing if he did not have the crossed, bugged out eyes, buck teeth, and massive, scrunched up nose, not to mention the unnecessarily defined jawline. Above the mocking drawing, she had written neatly;

******_A stupid detective named I'm-a-pretentious-prick lives here with his tiny dwarf boyfriend. :)_**

Sherlock glowered, and muttered, "It's been fourteen years and you still act like a five-year-old,"

Enola smirked, and replied, "You should thank me for taking Wendy off of your hands. She drew that!"

The detective narrowed his eyes, and drew sharp breaths. He was proud to say that during the entire decade-and-a-half that his sister was gone, he did not miss her.

"How has your life of hiding been?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of the hideous caricature drawing.

Enola huffed, "I _wasn't hiding_,"

"Then what do _you _call it?!"

She knit her eyebrows in thought for a moment, before she said, "I was defending myself,"

"Defending yourself from what?!"

"_PRISON_," Enola emphasized her statement by pressing down so forcefully with her chalk that is snapped in half.

Sherlock pursed his lips, and decided to drop the matter. For now. Instead, he glumly sat himself down on the concrete steps, and let out a long, exhausted breath. The London air was still damp from the previous rain, and the streets were deserted besides the occasional passing cab. There were a few faint 'city noises' lingering in the air, but besides that, the two siblings sat in silence. Awful silence.

"Do you really think he's the killer?" Enola finally spoke up, somewhat startling her brother.

He took a moment to recollect his wits, before sighing, "I dunno. It makes sense but at the same time...it doesn't make any sense,"

The younger sibling shrugged, and returned to coloring in a lovely chalk drawing of a rose. "Does he know that you know?"

"No,"

Enola giggled for a while, until she met Sherlock's stern gaze, and shut up. "Well...maybe you should talk to him,"

"And _why_ should I take your advice?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a bit, and replied, "He doesn't look like a killer. Usually murderers give off a sort of vibe that you and I would be able to pick up on. He doesn't really carry that vibe as much as some of the people I've met...but he's definitely killed someone,"

"He was an army doctor in Afghanistan, so I'm guessing he's killed people before," Sherlock said, closely studying his sister's chalk illustration.

Enola nodded, understandingly, "Riiiiight...so, traumatic experiences like that could lead to possible mental illnesses, or just cause you to go nuts, but if so, he does a heck of a good job covering it up,"

"Or I was thinking more along the lines of possible hypnosis, influence of drugs, but those are also decent possibilities...if John had been forced to do it, he would have been a nervous wreck at the crime scene. Plus, he was more ignorant than usual that day, so perhaps drugs had been specially crafted to cause him to forget about that place in particular...but how? I've never encountered a drug like that before, or even heard of anything like it,"

The younger sister halted in the midst of her drawing at the mention of Sherlock's previous history with drugs, but said, "Quite possibly. Or, perhaps, from being around you so often he knows what you are oblivious to," Sherlock glared at the mere possibility, "So he knows how to get around you knowing what he's up to. He seems almost impatient, as if he wants you to figure it out,"

Sherlock took the concept into consideration, steepled his fingers, and rested his chin on the tips. Although he hated the concept, it seemed easier to think while speaking aloud. He rarely did this with John, because obviously his ignorant mind would not be able to comprehend it, but it was simple with his sister. Besides her awful criminal record, she was not quite as ignorant, and had a fairly well-established Mind Palace.

Enola groaned in annoyance as she demolished another stick of chalk, breaking her brother's concentration. She swiveled around to face Wendy, and grinned from ear-to-ear.

"That's a lovely drawing, Wendy!" she remarked, but in a normal tone. None of the members of the Holmes family had a decent baby-voice, and strongly believed that small children should be spoken to the same was as adults.

The baby gurgled in response, and flailed her tiny arms in joy.

"When are you going back home?" Sherlock asked, trying to get his mind off the case.

"Next Wednesday," Enola replied, turning towards her chalk drawing again.

The detective fought back a groan, and pointed out, "I see that you anticipate to stay with be, but we do not have any spare bedrooms,"

The younger sister frowned, "No, Mrs. Hudson said that there is a bedroom upstairs, and a bedroom downstairs. You occupy the downstairs one, so I can occupy the upstairs one,"

Sherlock let out a loud groan of annoyance, and said, "Yes, I occupy the downstairs one, and John occupies the upstairs one,"

Enola laughed out loud, "You don't share a bed! What kind of relationship is that?!"

"_We're not a couple_," the detective growled, threateningly.

"Sure...right...oh well. You're couch looks comfortable enough. You can sleep on the couch, and I'll sleep in your room,"

"No, YOU can sleep on the couch. I am sleeping in MY room!"

Enola pouted, but replied, "Whatever. I'll sleep on the couch. Oh, and please do tell John to stop staring at me. I don't think you'd appreciate him constantly getting googly-eyed over your precious little sister, hm?"

Sherlock brushed off the comment, and swiftly rose to his feet. He began to make his way back inside, but stopped, and said, "That's a lovely drawing, Enola," and continued inside.

**Yes, yes, it's not very long. But I enjoyed writing it! I love all of your wonderful follows, and favorites, and reviews! Really, it makes me cry tears of joy every time! I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and if you have any suggestions, PLEASE PM me! I would really love it, and I would give you full credit!**

**Tiger of the Storm: I'm glad that you love it, because I love yoooouuuuu!**

**Nothing belongs to me except for Wendy and SOME of Enola. **

**See ya soon!**


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock stepped back inside, John was awaiting him, somewhat awestruck, somewhat annoyed.

"Care to explain anything?" he asked.

"Mmm...no," the detective replied, robotically as he slowly stepped to his room, shedding his coat as he did so.

John let out a sigh of annoyance, and half-shouted after him, "You really need to wash that, you know, it's covered in chalk,"

"Then do the laundry," the bedroom door quietly clicked closed behind him.

Sherlock flopped onto his bed, face-first into the pillow, and let out a long, exaggerated breath. Truthfully, he hated this case. Every single other time, it was as simple as locating the murderer, and having them sent to jail. The end. But now, the murderer was not someone that could _simply _be confronted, and _simply _sent to jail. Suddenly, Sherlock's neck jerked up. All at once, he realized what was happening. _EMOTIONS._

He flipped onto his back, and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Stupid...stupid..." he muttered, taking huge, exasperated breaths. '_Stop it_' he thought '_Never let your heart rule your head_'. Sherlock rolled over to his side, and stared at the clock. Before he knew it, the hour hand had landed itself on the 5, and he could hear Enola and Wendy come inside, and sit themselves down in the den. His sister begin having a conversation with John, and his ears perked up. Silently, he hoped that she would not mention the murder. He wanted to confront John on his own.

Eventually, the hour hand passed on to 6, then 7, and John left to do the laundry. From the den, Enola could be heard talking, almost casually, with Wendy. Sherlock decided to let them be. After about another half an hour of lying, motionless, the detective could feel his limbs begin to go numb. Slowly, he sat up, and glanced around the room. Then, standing up, he undressed, whipped the sheets off of his mattress, and wrapped them around his person. Regally, he emerged from his bedroom, acknowledged Enola with a nod (she looked not at all surprised at the sight of her brother wearing nothing but a sheet) and stepped into the bathroom to shower.

Meanwhile, John leaned on the silver washing machine as he sorted through jumper after jumper, until he came upon Sherlock's coat. It's pockets were heavy. Sighing, he reached into the left one, and found eight pounds (which he pocketed for himself), a blood sample, a rock, a few tissues, and a packet of sugar. The opposite one only carried Sherlock's mobile, and a carefully folded piece of paper. Curiously, John began to unfold the paper. He frowned.

"Sherlock, what's this?" he called.

Immediately, Sherlock nearly felt his heart drop. He cursed himself for being so _STUPID_ as to leave the paper in his pocket. Without turning off the water, he bounded out of the shower, hurriedly threw his bed-sheet over his body, and flew out of the bathroom, past his sister (who was now busying herself with a coloring book), down the stairs, and into the laundry room where his flatmate stood, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Did you draw this?" he asked, casually, "It's really good,"

Sherlock said nothing. He only remained where he stood, dripping, blanketed by a white sheet.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

No reply.

John huffed, and looked back down at the sketch, only now noticing a small stamp in the corner.

**Officer Bernard Sanchez-murderer**

The doctor's annoyed face fell, and he slowly gazed back at Sherlock. Annoyance turned to confusion, and confusion suddenly spurted into outrage.

"_I'M A SUSPECT?!_" John shouted, shoving the paper back at his flatmate.

In the consulting detective's mind palace, a war was raging. One side was the side of emotions (very few soldiers) and the other side was that of logic. So far, logic was winning, so he replied, "Yes, I thought that was very clear,"

John's eyes widened in outrage, and his face burned red with frustration. "_WHY AM I A BLOODY SUSPECT?!_"

"It seemed likely, and Bernard saw you kill them. Therefore, naturally, one would think that you are a very likely suspect," Internally, Sherlock kicked himself, because for once he knew that what he was saying was awful, but emotions must entirely stay out of the matter.

"I didn't...but...I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE!"

"Yes, we are considering it was an outburst while under the influence of drugs-"

"We?"

"-or perhaps some sort of hypnotic effect-"

"WHO ARE YOU AGREEING WITH ON THIS?"

"-or perhaps you have gone mentally ill-"

"ANSWER ME SHERLOCK!"

"-but in any case we will have to interrogate you,"

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock looked into the eyes of his flatmate's, but still refrained from showing any emotion–as usual. "Yes?"

"Who agrees with you on this?" now, John was panicked. All his life, the last thing he wanted to be a criminal. Heck, he had risked his life for his country. He assisted in crime solving all the time. _No way _he would ever be caught with the reputation of a criminal!

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it, realizing he had not told Lestrade, or Bernard, or anyone else who might assist him in solving the case; only his sister. He silently groaned at his stupidity, but replied, "That information is classified,"

"SHERLOCK-" the doctor stopped himself from shouting again, and said, "Sherlock, please tell me,"

Without speaking, the detective turned and strode away, fighting to ignore all emotions, and block out John's exasperated breaths from his mind. He carefully went up the stairs, into the den where Enola had moved on to playing his violin. Annoyed, he statched it right out from under her chin right in the midst of Beethoven Concerto No. 1, and began to pack it back up in its case. Enola glared, but Sherlock completely disregarded it.

Just as he expected, John came up from the laundry room, with many questions that he really was not in the mood to answer at the moment.

"Sherlock, Bernard must have been in some sort of sock, I-" he began, but Sherlock completely turned his back, indicating that he did not want to hear it, "SHERLOCK LISTEN TO ME!"

The detective said nothing.

"I'M NOT ON DRUGS!"

No reply.

"SHERLOCK!"

Enola glanced between the two flatmates, and smiled, for she immediately understood completely what had happened. "John's right, Sherly. He doesn't look like he's done any drugs,"

Silence.

"Okay, let's play the '_I'm too superior for your little ignorant minds_' game, shall we?!"

Nothing.

"My turn! I broke your fine tuners,"

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped his violin case back open, and grabbed the instrument by the neck. Sure enough, two of the small tuners below the bridge were missing. Enola held them in the palm of her hand, and offered them up to her elder brother, but he ignored it, placing the instrument back in the case.

"Sherlock we need to talk!" John shouted, sounding not at all hopeful.

"Okay," the detective replied, "Later,"

He sulked back to his room, and slammed the door behind him.

**AN: ...hi. Yeah. This is unacceptably late. Sorry. Like I've said, the updates will become more scarce, because I'm having a lot of homework, and I have a life. I'll just skip to the shoutouts.**

**imacurlygirl: OH MY GOSH THANK YOUUUUUU! I was worried about adding Enola, and I'm glad that you like her and Wendy! As for your comment on Sherlock, I totally agree with you. All of Moffat and Gatiss's characters are very complex, and amazing, and they're difficult to get right (but I'll do my best for now!) Yes, I hope it is plain to see from this chapter that there ****_will_**** be more John (although I'm not sure about Molly, but I'll try to squeeze her in here and there)**

**I will say this again: UPDATES WILL BE SLOWER. DO NOT BE ALARMED. THIS IS NORMAL.**

**As always, feel free to PM me with ideas (I know that all of you are fantastic!) which I will most certainly take into account. Thanks for all of the favorites, follows, and reviews! I hope you like the story!**

**See ya (not so) soon!**


	11. Chapter 11

Enola grinned as Wendy squealed, "Mama!"

Curiously, John glanced over from his sulking spot in the burgundy chair. He had not looked up from his hands for at least two hours, only hearing the sound of the shower (which Sherlock had stepped back into) and Enola teaching Wendy something. Only now did he realize what that was. She was showing different pictures of Sherlock to Wendy, and slowly teaching her to identify all of them as 'Mama'. Under normal circumstances, John would have chuckled. Now, he was just amazed at how she could keep her cool. He supposed that, after spending half of her lifetime with him, she would be very accustom to Sherlock's behavior.

It was 9:00 P.M. and John was famished, especially after the episode. Wearily, he rose to his feet, and shuffled to the kitchen. He yanked open the blank fridge door, and groaned. Roadkill. Solemnly, he closed it again, and looked through the cabinets; ditto.

"Sherlock, I-" he started to call, but stopped himself. No, he would not speak to Sherlock. He would not look at Sherlock. He would not think about Sherlock. No more Sherlock.

"Yes?" a deep voice responded behind him.

John whirled around, suddenly staring his flatmate in the face. His hair was soaked, and straight at his shoulders (which looked rather silly), and water dripped onto the floor, however he still wrapped himself in the stupid white sheet.

"Why is there roadkill in the fridge?" he asked, mentally kicking himself for breaking his vow, already.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, bluntly.

"I need to eat,"

"Oh! I want to go to Speedy's!" Enola called from the living room.

The food at Speedy's was not always the greatest, but John's rumbling stomach demanded it.

"Okay..." he answered, slowly.

Sherlock gave a false, sarcastic smile, and swiftly turned back to the living room, his billowing sheet swishing after him. Then, he disappeared into his room. Enola cast a quick glance at the door, and went back to flipping through photos of her brother. Suddenly, she broke into a wild grin, and pointed at the bookshelf.

"Hey look, it's his secondary school yearbook!" she yanked out a massive, brown, hardback book from its place, wedged in between two encyclopedias.

**Thomas William Secondary School** was written in big, gold letters on the front. It looked ancient, and dusty; clearly Sherlock had not been overly proud of its contents, so he failed to regularly clean it. Enola flipped it open, and ran her finger down the table of contents. Then, she quickly flipped to page 23, and chuckled. John could not help but come and see. He stepped around, behind her, so she was looking over her shoulder. Underneath a faded, yellowed picture, '**Sherlock Holmes**' was printed. In the picture, a boy, no older than sixteen years, sat, staring pointedly at the camera. He had the same, 'I-am-deducing-what-you-ate-for-breakfast-fear-me' expression, as if he was continuously looking over the camera man, seeing how he could possibly humiliate him this time. Cold, grey-blue eyes, a fixed jaw, and hawk-like face were all the same, but his hair. It was short, and close to his head, still as curly as ever, but thick and shining with an overload of product. But it was blonde. VERY BLONDE. Sickeningly blonde, with horrid, dark roots. It had obviously been bleached very unprofessionally. The sight almost made John laugh out loud, despite his frustration with his flatmate. The great and intelligent Sherlock Holmes sat in a school uniform, BLONDE, and staring at a camera.

"That's him?!" John exclaimed, still giggling.

"Yeah, he was a freak," Enola sneered, then glanced at the door to Sherlock's bedroom, "Well...I say was..."

John made no comment. Instead, he rose to put on his shoes. As he did so, Sherlock emerged from his room, dressed in his dark purple shirt, black pants, and loafers. At the sight of him, Wendy squealed, "Mama!" and pointed a stubby, pink finger at the detective. He blinked in surprise, then frowned at Enola. In return, she sneered, but did her best to hide the yearbook she had discovered, but Sherlock saw straight through it. He strode over, grabbed the book out from underneath the couch cushion, and calmly set it back in its place on the shelf.

"Let's go," he muttered.

**AN: I cannot even express how sorry I am. This is an excuse of a chapter. I know. But, as I've said, I have been really busy, and have really been neglecting the fanfiction. However, I have really appreciated your continued support. AND I REALLY NEED IDEAS. If there's anything that you would really like to see in an upcoming chapter, leave a review or PM me. I will GLADLY take your suggestion.**

**imacurlgygirl: I am VERY glad that you are loving it! I was inspired to break his violin because I recently had to get the fine tuners on MY violin replaced, and it was a pain. As for John's freak out, yeah, I agree. Nothing I do is very serious. Somehow I just goof off. ^_^ Thanks for the reviews, by the way. You are a fantastic person!**

**As always, Follow, Favorite, and Review. I love you all! Please forgive me for being such a procrastinator! I'll try REALLY hard not to be so late.**

**See ya (not very) soon!**

**P.S. If you are an Avengers fan, please look into my other fanfictions. THANKS!**


	12. Chapter 12

Out the large window, the sky was already dark, and the streets were close to empty. Enola, Sherlock, John, and Wendy were the only ones occupying the cafe, besides a man with his laptop, alone at a table, and the restaurant staff. Besides the nearly silent tapping of the man's keyboard and the chorus of "Killer Queen" playing softly over the speakers, the four ate in silence. Reluctantly, Sherlock had agreed to take Wendy along, rather than leaving her at the flat, for they all feared that they would return to find their home on fire, or at least totally destroyed.

"So, Enola," John finally said, quietly, and avoiding any eye-contact with Sherlock, "You're from America?"

"Right. I moved to America when I was fourteen," she replied.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Fourteen?!"

"She did not move to America, she ran away to America," Sherlock interrupted, saying the first word in a long time.

"You're just jealous that I fooled you," his sister sneered.

"You didn't fool me, I figured it out within a day,"

"That was enough time for me,"

John sensed the tension between the two and shrank down in his seat slightly. If there was going to be an argument, he wanted no part of it, especially considering the fact that, at the moment, he was a suspect for the murder of seventeen children.

Sherlock picked up on this motion, and turned to John, "She robbed a bank when she was fourteen, and fled to America so I couldn't get to her,"

The doctor felt his jaw physically drop, and suddenly he felt uneasy being in the presence of a criminal. Casually. It was the same feeling he had when Sherlock told him to text the murderer in the pink lady case.

"Yes, I know, I'm a criminal," Enola said, somewhat annoyed, "But hey, at least we all have something in common now!"

"FOR THE LAST TIME, I DIDN'T DO IT," John nearly shouted, but tried to keep his voice low, as the man with the laptop glared from across the room.

"Well, we can't just jump to conclusions now, John," Enola replied, sarcastically, "First we must interrogate you and find out more information!"

"I'd rather not..."

The woman across from him cocked her eyebrow, as if to say are-you-kidding-me? but made no verbal response. Wendy reached up to her and grabbed her nose. Sherlock glanced over, and showed a small, triumphant smile, but quickly turned away when he caught John's gaze.

"No, Wendy," Enola scolded, calmly, "We don't grab noses,"

The baby turned to Sherlock, who sat across the table, and squealed, "MAMA!" and pointed at Sherlock.

His sister clapped her hands, and cooed, "Very good Wendy!" she turned to Sherlock, "Isn't she smart? She can say your name!"

The consulting detective just grunted in reply.

"Cheer up, blondie,"

Sherlock snapped his head towards his sister at the mention of his childhood.

"You should be proud of Wendy," Enola grinned, and sipped her Coke.

"Why are you so attracted to her?" the detective finally said, annoyed.

"And why do YOU care?"

"I don't care, I simply want to know,"

"That's the same thing,"

"No it isn't,"

"Yes it is, if you want to know, you care,"

"Then don't tell me,"

"I gladly won't,"

"Excellent,"

"Wendy told me she hates you,"

"Good,"

"You're not nice to her,"

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. She thinks you look like a tater tot,"

"I don't know what that is,"

"It's you,"

"Lovely,"

"Indeed,"

"How was the man you met on your flight to London?"

"Attractive, but gay,"

"That's a shame,"

"Why?"

"You need someone to keep your big mouth shut,"

"As do you,"

"No I do not,"

"Right, you have John,"

"Exactly,"

"HA!" Enola shouted, jumping up on her chair, "SO YOU ARE TOGETHER!"

Sherlock blinked, and stammered, "What? No, I- I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT, ENOLA,"

"Suuuuuuure," his sister sneered, "This will be big on the papers. 'Detective's Romantic Partner is Accused of Murder'. Heck, they could make a reality TV show about that! It'll be all about the consulting detective's adventures with his boyfriend, but suddenly the tables turn, and his boyfriend is a criminal! Then, the detective is too much of a freaking pushover to every get his boyfriend arrested, so they're just stuck doing this little, sad dance until finally the detective becomes a criminal too, and they go all over the world doing their criminal deeds until finally the detective's sensible, smart, pretty, awesome, and best-person-in-the-world sister comes along and arrests them BOTH!"

The man with the laptop and the restaurant workers all stared at the girl standing on her chair, announcing this idea. She looked over at them, smiled innocently, and carefully sat back down in her chair.

"I'm not a criminal," John hissed, trying to ignore the curious stares from the other people in the cafe.

"Like I said," Enola reasoned, patting Wendy on the back, "We can't jump to conclusions. I've been through plenty of interrogations, I know,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and muttered, "That isn't exactly something to be proud of,"

Enola ignored him, and began to absently chatter with Wendy, leaving the two flatmates off in their own thoughts.

John just did not get it. Sherlock was widely known for strange behavior, but he would not intentionally accuse the doctor of murder unless he was sure, and at this point, he did not seem really sure at all. John did not remember doing anything of the sort, nor did he remember any point where he would have had time to do such a thing. It was a scary thought, indeed, that perhaps a false scenario had been placed in his mind by someone else. That entire day, to him, could have been a lie, and he would never know; not without Sherlock's help. Although John liked his flatmate (and considered himself a friend) he highly disliked seeking him out for help. Sherlock always found a way to overthink things, and just make the whole situation even more difficult.

For instance, when John asked him to simply help him pick out a birthday present for Jenette, Sherlock had managed to buy her a cat. It was a sleek, black, male cat, with tan-orange eyes. The detective had convinced John that she had wanted this kind of cat for all of her life, which he had deduced simply from her text messages. As it turns out, she was severely allergic to this breed of cat, and had to be sent to the hospital. That relationship ended quickly.

Really, John just wanted simple advice, and reasoning. He did not want a lengthy conversation in which Sherlock deduces, in great detail, how his breath smelled far too much of cherry, toothpaste, and garlic bread to be under any sort of drug influence; he just wanted reason. He wanted Sherlock to look at the situation through more of a personal point of view, rather than the facts.

However, now, John had little hope.

**AN: Yay! This one wasn't quite as outrageously late, and it was longer! I'm getting better now, I promise, but the next few will probably be more of transitions to the juicy stuff. THAT will be fun. Oh, and disclaimer, as much as I ship JohnLock, this is NOT a JohnLock fic. I think I may have forgotten to mention that earlier. Apologies, if I may have gotten your hopes up.**

**Guest: Hi to you too! French huh? Awesome! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic, and I, too, hope that I update soon. I think the writer's block is wearing off, as I've been more inspired lately. Keep being awesome!**

**imacurlygirl: Yes, I'm loving to craft Enola. To be really honest, I'm finding her attitude to be much easier to shape than Sherlock's, mostly because I feel like I'm reflecting myself onto her. Why was Sherlock blonde? Well...that was around the time he started doing drugs so...I think you can ****_deduce_**** the rest.**

**As always, favorite, follow, and review! I love all of you. ;)**

**See ya soon(er)!**


	13. Chapter 13

The next several days dragged by like a snail pulling a bowling ball. Sherlock was never busied with any other cases, so he was stuck back in 221B, interrogating. He and John never had a straight-on session of interrogation; just little questions that Sherlock would casually spread throughout conversation. Trying to catch him off guard, John supposed. For instance:

"Will you pass me my phone?"

"How did you cover up the evidence?"

"...I'm sorry?"

"How did you cover up the evidence?"

"Sherlock, I _didn't do it_,"

"Yes, very nice. Here's your phone,"

Enola stayed for a few more days, until Mycroft's wedding had passed (which Sherlock and John had reluctantly attended, despite their current disagreements). Much to Sherlock's pleasure, his sister shortly returned to her home in America.

"Are you sure you won't miss me too much?" she asked, teasingly as she packed up her massive luggage carrier.

"Yes, I am quite sure. Goodbye," Sherlock replied, annoyed.

"If I'm gone, who's going to keep you in-line? John's too much of a pushover for that,"

"I'm quite sure that I can manage on my own, thank you,"

"Will you remember what I told you about Wendy?"

"I can remember anything and everything,"

"Remember what I told you about John?"

Sherlock paused from looking over his phone, and turned his gaze towards his jittery sister. "What did you tell me about John?"

"Remember, the honeymoon suite in Italy costs more than the one in Paris," his sister answered, with a grin, "And I know that you two are broke,"

The detective scowled, looked down at his phone, and said, "Dear sister, I do believe it's that you're going to miss your flight,"

Enola glanced at the clock, then nodded, and jumped to her feet. "Where's John?! I can't leave without telling him goodbye!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock muttered, sarcastically, "He's out getting lunch. I guess you'll have to leave without a goodbye,"

His sister pouted for a moment, then asked "When will you visit me in America?"

"Never,"

"Fantastic. I'll see you then!" she grabbed her massive, blue suitcase by the handle, and started out the door. Then, she stopped, and turned around, "Do you promise you'll take care of Wendy?"

Sherlock paid no mind to the question, and grunted, "Mhm,"

"Thanks, Sherly. See ya!" with that, Enola Holmes was gone.

The detective sighed in relief as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. His obnoxious sister was finally out of the way...now it was time to deal with John.

As soon as Enola was out of sight, Wendy, who was propped up happily on the couch, turned to Sherlock and whimpered.

The detective glanced over at her, huffed, and turned his back.

"Mama!" she shouted, and threw her arms on the couch cushion.

"I am not your mother," Sherlock sighed, and rested his chin on his steepled fingertips.

"MAMA!" Wendy persisted, leaning so far forward that she fell over into the cushion.

"Stop it, child. Why can't you learn to behave yourself?" the detective scolded, and strode to grab his violin. He took it up from where it rested on the chair, and looked pitifully at its missing fine tuners. Gingerly, he plucked the A string, and it came unanchored from the instrument with a sad _PANG_. Sherlock groaned loudly, and looked up at the ceiling in frustration. Meanwhile, Wendy giggled, almost in a mocking way. It was absolutely irritable. Carefully, as to not cause any more harm than had already ensued, Sherlock set the instrument back on its place of rest on the chair. As the back came in contact with the cushion of the stool, the D string followed the same fate. The string popped up, and curled towards the scroll. It looked almost ugly to the detective. He scoffed, and ripped the string out of the instrument fully, and threw it to the floor. The string landed, then stilled, and Sherlock let it be.

In his pocket, the detective's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and read a text from Molly;

**12:34**

**I haven't heard from you in a while. Is Wendy okay?**

**-MH-**

Sherlock rubbed the screen with his thumb, briefly, then tapped;

**12:34**

**The child is fine, but quite a nuisance. **

**-SH-**

**12:35**

**Do you want me to come and take her? **

**-MH-**

Sherlock glanced from his phone to Wendy, then back to his phone again. Did he want to leave Wendy with Molly? He was still studying for any sort of visual connection between her and John, and losing that critical aid would cost a lot in the case. Then again, Wendy was painfully annoying.

He finally replied:

**12:36**

**Perhaps.**

**-SH-**

Sherlock figured that would be enough of an answer for now, and tossed his phone to the side. On the couch, Wendy hummed, then squealed, and giggled for a few moments.

"Yes?" Sherlock inquired, sarcastically.

"Mama!" the baby shouted.

"Are you possibly mentally ill? I am NOT your mother,"

Wendy smiled, and said nothing. In return, the detective huffed, and strode over to the couch where she sat. Carefully, he scooped her up, and held her against his chest/ Wendy made no protest. With the child, Sherlock sat himself back down on the couch, and propped her up on his knees. He stared at her for probably an hour or so, but the time went by quickly. The baby had brown eyes, which were a bit surprising for her age, wispy, brown hair that sat just on top of her soft scalp, and the typical plump, rounded face that most young children had. Her nose was not flat, but certainly did not come out very far, and her nostrils were quite flared. Sherlock recognized those features, but they were just put a bit more subtly, and were not quite developed at this young age. Yes, Sherlock knew that face, but not the source. Whose child was she, _really_?

**Sherlock, Officer Bernard wants to talk with you again.**

**-JW-**

The detective slowly picked up his phone, and eyed the message.

**I'll be there. You come with.**

**-SH-**

He replied. They were going to have a chat with Bernard, from criminal, to victim, to witness; John, Wendy, and Bernard.

"_This will be fun_," Sherlock thought, and reached for his coat.

**AN: OH MY GOSH! I ACTUALLY GOT IT DONE! Sorry for the wait; I've been on vacation, and, frankly, very busy. School gets out in less than a week so I'll have much more time to put into this once it's summer break! If your wondering about 'Mycroft's wedding', you can find out about it in my other fanfiction called Lovely Suzette (But I haven't updated in forever so...) SHOUTOUTS!**

**Shinchan13: Thank you so much! I'm very glad that you like it! **

**Now that the plot is rolling more smoothly, I'll probably be out of writer's block for now, which is excellent. Stay on the lookout of updates! As always, follow, favorite, and review review review, because I LOVE hearing from you all! It makes me tear up with joy!**

**See ya soon!**


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